“Well, just so you know,” Vera says, smiling at me pleasantly before using her fork to stab another bite of steak.
“Just so you know,” Monique echoes as she resumes cutting her steak with her knife.
Esme shakes her head and gives her friends a watery smile that says she’s also used to them, and she loves them very much. What the three of them have makes me long even more for home. It might be a nut-wilting thing to say, but who cares? I’m confident in my masculinity, and I can handle feminine products with no difficulty.
Well, good. I’m glad I’m not going to get chopped into bits with an ancient steak knife and grilled with old books. Not tonight, and hopefully, not ever, though it does make me even warier to think about telling Esme the truth or of it coming out somehow. I thought I could explain everything, and she’d understand or something. I thought I’d figure it out. But now, I’m scared of hurting her, and not just because I might end up in someone’s basement.
CHAPTER 13
Esme
Well, dinner was slightly a disaster, but what did I expect? That will teach me to invite my friends over at the spur of the moment just to give Wilder an extra hard time when he’s been nothing but nice. They both came, dropping everything just so I could save face. Also, because I might have mentioned something about it being part of the plot to oust my unwanted roomie, and they’re my besties, so they always have my back.
Anyway, as soon as Vera got to the house, which was a minute after Monique, she had to race up to my craft rooms to check out what I’ve been working on. She does this all the time. Of course, she saw the new machine, and of course, Wilder got major brownie points in her books. She wasn’t so ready to oust him after that. Also, she may have spotted him cooking outside from the window and then appreciated his fine figure amidst spontaneous ovulation for a good five whole minutes. Monique also may have joined her to see what all the fuss was about. By the time dinner was ready, I knew my battle was already lost. My besties already liked Wilder, and he’d done nothing to actually even win them over.
So, yeah. I do know what’s wrong with me. I know why I’m not being nice and why I’m doing all of it. Like avoiding him, needling him, and making things difficult.
It all boils down to the fact that my hoo-ha is a traitor—a big, freaking, lusty traitor.
My nipples, thighs, stomach, and the rest of my body might be in league with the batty bat cave to various degrees, and I don’t like it. My brain is logical, but my brain is the center of feelings of pain. It has experienced enough lies and pain, so now it is smart and wise. It knows, but my body won’t listen. My body won’t get in line. I think I’ve known that since the second Wilder walked in the door. I know I can’t trust him as he’s probably lying about why he’s here. And even if he’s not, he’s still leaving after a relatively short period of time. Trust is hard for my brain, but it is apparently not that hard for my lady zones.
They’re in total disagreement with each other, which makes me edgy.
Vera and Monique had to leave right after they were done, both with dinner and their threats. It warms my cold, bristly, sad heart to have them as my friends even if they did overdo it on a scale of the most epic proportions and though they liked Wilder by that point. They care about me, so they hated seeing what I’ve gone through, and they’ve gone through their own struggles too. Most importantly, we support and love each other. I know that’s what friends are supposed to do, but so few people have friends out there who would threaten to lock someone in their basement—for the record, Vera doesn’t actually have a basement—or go out and buy a grill just to make good on their other threats.
I already washed up the dishes—yes, the house has a dishwasher, and it’s me. That’s what Pappy S always used to say, anyway. I hated it, but now when I think about it, it just makes me think about him and the love I have for him. He might be my great-grandfather, but he’s every bit as true of a friend as Vera and Monique are, except in a totally different, much wiser, older, and more kooky kind of way.
My nerves are already basically shredded, so when I hear Wilder’s big, heavy steps enter the room where I’m scooping cat litter—it’s so he doesn’t have to think about coming in here and doing it because I can’t live that down after everything else today—my body goes on high alert, which means my nipples harden, my clit starts throbbing, and my lady cave lets out a silent cry of yahoo.